


Cars and downtown bars

by FlorenceVassy



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, But also, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Heartache, Heartbreak, I hate tagging, Infidelity, Love/Hate, Malcola, Pining, Rejection, standard Malcola stuff, taylor's new album is out and I have a lot of feelings, yES I have a wholeass Malcola fic to finish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlorenceVassy/pseuds/FlorenceVassy
Summary: "To kiss in cars and downtown bars was all we needed."Malcola ficlets inspired by 'folklore'.
Relationships: Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 51
Kudos: 48





	1. "But we were something, don't you think so?"

**Author's Note:**

> "But we were something, don't you think so? Roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool." - 'the 1'

Their relationship had always been based on need.

She needed him; to wrangle the press, to talk her down from the ledge, to make her sparkle. She needed him a lot more than she liked to admit. She didn’t trust anyone but him to handle her excessive amounts of baggage.

At particularly stressful interviews, he would prep her beforehand. Then he’d stand on the sidelines, watching, nodding his head, mouthing the words along with her. He would sit behind her in cabinet meetings, occasionally leaning forwards to breathe pertinent talking points or words of encouragement into her ear. If he couldn’t make it, sometimes he would wait outside, catch her afterwards, inquire nonchalantly about how it went.

They would spend hours together some nights, waxing lyrical on policy presentation and media perception. She would tell him to go home and he would tell her he couldn’t, not until he was certain she knew the thing inside and out. Perhaps it was more correct to say their relationship was based on her needs.

That is, until, the day he was sacked. He had needed her, then.

“Open your fucking mouth for once and say something.”

He was asking her to save him. And she couldn’t. Save him, shoot herself.

“I’m not seeing this. I’m not getting involved.”

The way he had looked at her then was frightening. She had never seen him look so desperate. She was betraying him. She saw that in his eyes.

The days they had spent together on the media circuit, only the two of them, finding out what made the other laugh, and making each other howl in train carriages packed with commuters and day trippers. The hours spent arguing, beginning with political decision making before turning to personal insults and attacks, but always ending with some sort of agreement that they both couldn’t quite believe they had found. The minutes they had passed waiting; so much of politics was waiting, waiting for meetings, waiting for announcements, waiting for lifts. The seconds that had slipped away as they passed each other in corridors, bounced down stairwells in opposite directions, arms brushed against arms and legs against legs. The moments that had melted between them in silence, thick with desire and longing, mouths hovering centimetres apart, a hand resting on a hip; moments that had passed to never be spoken of again.

All of this, she saw in his eyes, as he begged her to say something. She ran.

Weeks passed since he had told her to fuck off and so she did. And now she found herself on his doorstep, pressing the bell, needing to see him, to speak to him, to tell him she was sorry.

He opened the door and didn’t say anything. Just looked at her with those same dark eyes. He stepped back to let her in.

“Bit late to say anything now, don’t you think?”

“Malcolm, I—”

He had her against the wall of the hallway, her legs awkwardly pressed against a bike she didn’t realise he owned. He was wearing a pullover, something she had never seen him in before. His finger was pressed into her chest, accusingly.

“You’re sorry?” he said. “Too fucking little, too fucking late. What are you doing here, Nic’la?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she breathed, eyes darting about his face. “But you know I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t…lie.”

The finger pressed into her chest relaxed into a palm. He sighed, and walked towards the kitchen. She smoothed her skirt and followed him.

“Tea?”

“What?”

“Tea!” he snapped. “Do you want it, yes or no?”

“Oh, er, yes. Please.”

He nodded, turning his back to her, busying himself with the kettle. Nicola fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist, hovering over a chair.

“Sit,” he said, holding a mug out towards her.

“I’m not a dog, Malcolm,” she replied, although she did sit.

“Aye, you’re right, teaching you to fetch would be a fucking nightmare,” he said, and they both smiled. This was what they did best. Poking at each other, name-calling, ribbing one another. It was a relief to feel such normality after not speaking for weeks.

She sipped at her tea, ignoring the part of her that was pleased that he remembered her preference for fruit flavours. The silence was becoming uncomfortable. She panicked for something to say.

“That rug is nice,” she said. “Where’s it from? IKEA?”

“Nic’la,” he started, putting his mug down.

“You can get all sorts from there these days. We got this brilliant little—”

“Nic’la,” he said, firmer this time. She stopped, blinking. “Why did you come here?”

She swallowed, foolishly not expecting him to go straight for the jugular. “I…wanted to apologise. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

He laughed, and it felt cruel. “How am I doing?” he spat. “I’m doing shit, Nic’la. I lost my job doing the only thing I ever loved. My life is as fucking empty…as your massive fucking head. If you had only just said something, then I—”

“That’s not fair, Malcolm,” she said, the volume of her voice surprising herself. “Even if I had, it would have eventually got out, and we’d both be in the shit.” She sighed, lowering her voice and composing herself. “I just…wanted to see if you were okay, that was all.”

At this, he stood up, looming over her.

“Why…do you…care?” he said.

She instinctively stood up, her mug dropping to the carpet with a thud.

“Because I do, Malcolm,” she said, brow creased in confusion. “You looked out for me. Yes, you were a shit, and sometimes I fucking hated you…but I cared about you. Care about you, still. All those nights we spent together, bashing out media strategy, the stupid jokes we shared about Tom and his disastrous attempt at a moustache, the…times we almost…”

Her voice faltered, as his eyes bore into her, unblinking.

“We were…quite the team, at one point,” she said, looking anywhere but into his eyes. “We were something, don’t you think so?”

Then his hand was on her face, making her meet his gaze. He moved in closer, grazing her ear like he used to in cabinet meetings.

“Were, Nic’la,” he whispered. “We _were_ something.”


	2. "I knew you'd haunt all of my 'what if?''s"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss, I knew you'd haunt all of my 'what if?''s." - 'cardigan'
> 
> Four times Malcolm made Nicola think "what if?".

i.

His behaviour had been nothing short of despicable all day. Stealing Julie Price, then punching Glenn, and then yelling at her as if she was to blame for all of it.

But then she had done her speech (minus any jokes, thanks to the gross incompetence of her staff), and he became different. He almost seemed impressed. Her cheeks coloured at his compliments, and she must have turned scarlet when he asked her to join him for a drink back at his room.

She had changed from her frumpy state-sanctioned suit into a sharper, more form-fitting navy dress, and headed down the corridor to room 505. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that he enjoyed her outfit, eyeing her legs as he let her in, before hurriedly grabbing her a glass of whiskey.

She had never realised he could be so attentive. Is this how he treated the ministers who he liked?

She had expected the evening to be awkward, to have to make an excuse after the first drink. But they were having a laugh. They reminisced about stupid things they did back at university, roaring with laughter as Nicola recounted a box dye gone wrong that ended in her hair coming out in stringy green clumps.

Then, five whiskeys in, he had reached out and touched her hair, feeling the soft strands between his fingers.

“You do have cracking hair,” he said, smiling stupidly. His hand fell to her shoulder. He let it rest a few moments before removing it and coughing awkwardly.

That night, she returned to her bed, whiskey in her veins and a Scot in room 505 on her mind.  
  


ii.

  
Anyone who had ever had the misfortune of being summoned to the Dark Lord of Spin’s office knew what a wholly terrifying ordeal it was. So Nicola tried to come up with little tactics to help her cope. Spinning her ring was one. Or making up songs in her head (that usually featured lyrics that went something like “fuck Malcolm / you massive fucking tosser” / how I hate you / you’re just a dosser”).

Usually though, her glazed-over eyes would land on one of the walls, which was filled with bright paintings on craft paper, the sort that Nicola recognised from her children’s time in nursery.

Malcolm had no children. So civil servants and ministers alike often speculated as to whose poor children Malcolm had put up to the task of creating artwork for his office walls.

One weekend morning, he had accosted her all the way out in her constituency. She was holding a surgery and he arrived, all Westminster warlord, bursting into her office as she was listening to an elderly gent complain about delayed refuse collection.

“I’m sick of waiting for it, Mrs Murray. It’s been three weeks my bins have been sat on the street now.”

“I’m really sorry about that, Maurice. I’m going to get on the phone with the council right now. It’s not on,” she said, frowning, both at the lack of responsibility shown by the local council and at the appearance of Malcolm in her thirty-minutes-out-of-London constituency.

“Thank you, Mrs Murray,” Maurice said, eyeing Malcolm suspiciously as he left.

He grinned at her. “Mrs Murray…that’s what they call you down here, is it?”

She folded her arms. “That is my name, Malcolm. Anyway, what on earth are you doing here?”

He reared up for attack, but paused as Nicola’s youngest, Ben, wandered in, teary-eyed.

“Oh, you running a daycare here as well?” he scoffed, before realising the child was actually upset.

“Mummy, I broke my toy,” said Ben, lip wobbling. Nicola stared helplessly at the contraption and at the ever-growing queue of constituents outside the office door.

“What’s up, wee man? Ah, it’s not broken. We can fix this, easy peasy. How about we leave mummy to do her job in peace and you come and play with me, yeah?” Malcolm said, leading Ben out of the room by the hand, but not before fixing her a glare that said “we will do This later.”

She stared at the paintings on the wall, and thought about how good he had been with Ben. James hadn’t parented like that, ever. She allowed her mind to wander: Malcolm cooking Christmas dinner, Malcolm tucking the kids in at night, Malcolm taking them to the park.

“Glummy mummy, you with us?” he snapped, bringing her out of her daze.

Every time she saw those paintings, she allowed herself to indulge the daydream a little further.  
  


iii.  
  


They had been at one another’s throats all day. He would storm out, back to his office, just to return twenty minutes later with another insult to hurl. Her team had taken to putting earplugs in because of the volume their shouts had reached.

Things died down as the afternoon crept on. He didn’t come out of his cave again til after 5 o’clock. Her staff had left and Nicola was forcing her heels on as he appeared at the door.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you again?” she said, rummaging through her handbag. “You’re like that fucking paperclip from Microsoft Word who won’t piss off no matter how many times you click him. I’ve had enough, Malcolm, go the fuck home.”

That did it.

Before she even knew it, he was on her, pushing her back against the wall, making her cry out.

“You don’t get to decide when you’ve had enough,” he snarled, low and harsh, hand rubbing at her hip.

She glowered at him, moving her lips up to meet his, before stopping herself. She snatched his pawing hand and held it in hers.

“I think I do get to decide. And I’m telling you, enough,” she breathed, her lips dangerously close to his.

She picked up her bag and ran out, heels hitting the stairs so hard she thought they might snap off.

As she sat in the back of the cab, she looked up at the office, and saw the outline of his figure, back slumped against the window.

She cursed herself for being so stubborn, but told Elvis to drive on.

iv.

She had told herself she would never cry at work. Yet, here she was, crying at work.

She wasn’t sat at her desk, she wasn’t that fucking careless. Neither did she want Terri cooing over her, all “poor Nicola” this, “poor Nicola” that. She had excused herself and ran to the loos, banged the cubicle door shut and burst into tears.

After some time had passed, the door creaked open. Probably fucking Robyn come to usher her out with the weak promise of an equally weak cup of tea to cheer her up.

She was surprised when she heard a definitively male voice bounce off the bathroom walls.

“Nic’la?” he said softly.

“What do you want?” she said, her voice still shaky and breathless.

“Just want to check you’re alright,” he said. And she believed him.

She pushed open the door to the cubicle she was slumped in, and he squeezed inside, closing the door behind him. He sank down against the wall next to her, his knees tucked up to his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “I just…everything is going wrong, Malcolm. I’m no good at this job, I wasn’t even meant to do it in the first place. I can’t stand another moment by my husband’s side, I fucking…I fucking hate him, and my kids hate me because I’m never around, and I’m a fucking shit mum, and I’m so anxious all the time that my chest hurts. My chest actually hurts, and I’m constantly making myself sick from worrying so much that everything is going wrong. I just…have no idea what to do,” she said, collapsing into another sob.

She felt ridiculous. She wasn’t just crying, but chest-heaving, gut-wrenching, guttural sobbing, in front of Malcolm, who was perhaps the most stoic man she had ever met. So she was once again surprised to find him draping his arm around her and pulling her head to rest on his shoulder.

“Shh,” he whispered. “It’s alright, Nic’la. You’re going to be alright. I’m here.” He reached out and gingerly stroked the back of her head.

“I’m…I’m…going to make your…blazer all wet,” she choked out.

“I’ll just have to borrow yours then, eh?” he said, smiling, and she gave a little laugh.

They sat like that, still, silent, for an hour or so. When she got home that night, she lay in bed next to her husband who hadn’t got off her case all day, wondering, “what if?”


	3. "The maddest woman this town has ever seen"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There goes the maddest woman this town has ever seen. She had a marvellous time ruining everything." - 'the last great american dynasty'
> 
> Because I am obsessed with the events of the DoSAC party.

The last place Malcolm had ever wanted to be on a Thursday evening was at the DoSAC departmental bash. Yet, to his shock and disappointment, there he was, on a Thursday evening (which could have been most fruitfully spent pitying the fuckers desperate enough to audition for _Britain’s Got Talent_ ), at the DoSAC departmental bash.

“Ollie, you fuckin’ pipe cleaner with glasses, how the hell are you?” Malcolm said, clapping the other man on the back.

“Fine, thanks, Malc,” Ollie spluttered, clutching his chest in response to what he perceived as Malcolm’s attempt to wind him.

“Fuck me, forget Glastonbury, all those fuckin’ sixth formers and elderly hippies in their camper vans ought to come to DoSACfest. This is some fucking rager,” Malcolm quipped, gazing about the room which was full of middle-aged civil servants and low-level politicians getting their rocks off.

“You ought to see the state of Mojito Murray,” Ollie said with a laugh.

“Mojito—who?” Malcolm replied, wide-eyed.

“Oh,” Ollie said, “right. It’s what everyone’s calling Nicola. I mean, we’re all a bit pissed but she’s pushed the proverbial boat out and drank the mojito-filled lake along with it.”

It was then that Malcolm glimpsed Nicola on the other side of the hotel function room. Her upper back was exposed in a green off-the-shoulder number, and her normally mental hair was somewhat tamed into loose waves. She was stood at the bar, in uproarious laughter with a junior minister about something, whilst drinking from a tall glass filled with clear liquid and mint leaves.

“They should install speed bumps at the bar. She’s been necking those mojitos since we arrived and as such, is…jolly,” Ollie said, snarky as ever.

Malcolm laughed and nodded, but his eyes were focused on Nicola, who had become a green blur as she moved further towards the back of the room.  
  


What began as a slow evening quickened as the wine flowed and the civil servants danced. Throughout, he was fixated on Nicola. She was a marvel to behold: making introductions, telling jokes that were (surprisingly) genuinely funny, and spinning on the dance floor in a way he’d never thought her capable. He was now watching her, stood with one arm around Glenn and the other around Robyn, probably making some off-colour remark about the two of them finally getting round to fucking. Meanwhile, Malcolm was sat having his ear talked off by Julius, who was grumbling on about cricket, or something.

“The thing with the England boys is that they are ruddy good, but just don’t have the constitutions to bowl truly world class cricket,” Julius stated, sipping at a glass of sherry.

“Yeah, you’re right there, mate,” Malcolm muttered, eyes fixed on Nicola.

Julius followed his gaze and tutted. “Look at her,” he said, voice full of disdain.

They watched as Nicola poured what appeared to be tequila into some shot glasses. The three of them cheersed, and Malcolm watched, mesmerised as Nicola licked the salt up from her hand, before artfully necking the shot, and sucking on a slice of lemon.

Glenn and Robyn fared less well, the pair of them spluttering and groaning as the spirit sank into their stomachs.

“How very bloody uncouth!” Julius scoffed, seemingly outraged at the concept of colleagues drinking together at a work function. “You know, she is just a loose cannon, don’t you think, Malcolm?”

“She’s something, alright,” Malcolm replied, still eyeing Nicola and her lovely bare shoulders.

“Honestly, she must be the maddest woman this town has ever seen. She’s pissed as a, and excuse my language here, but she’s pissed as a fart. You know, the bar have had to stop doing mojitos because they’ve ran out of mint? Guess who drank up their supply? Mojito—”

“Mojito Murray, yeah, I know,” Malcolm said, rolling his eyes. “Listen, Lord Baldemort, I’ve gotta just…”

He was up and walking away from the table before he could even bother to think of an excuse.

She was making her way to the bathroom when he found her in the crowd and grabbed her by the arm. She turned around and gave him the kind of infectious smile that made him immediately smile back.

“I hear you’re enjoying the party,” he said, still grinning, still holding her by the arm.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replied drunkenly, with a flick of her hair. “It’s good. Don’t you think?”

It was the sort of weird, unanswerable question only a person who was utterly bevved could ask. He let go of her arm.

“It’s fucking marvellous, darlin’,” he said. “Truly, all parties held before and after shall pale in comparison to this.”

She laughed. A beautiful, generous, ridiculous laugh. It wasn’t even one of his better lines.

"Shall we dance?” she said, and Malcolm was about to laugh too, but then he realised she was serious.

“Ah no, I don’t dance,” he answered, feeling awkwardly like the school geek being asked out by the prom queen.

“Come on,” Nicola said, and he couldn’t resist her.

“One dance,” he said, his massive grin giving any semblance of sternness away.  
  


He had spun her around and she had twisted and turned and clapped her hands and it had been much longer than one song. The DJ awkwardly switched from a bumping disco tune to a slower number, and he didn’t know what he was doing but it didn’t matter because he couldn’t stop himself anyway, and the next thing he knew his hand was on her waist and her head was resting on his shoulder. She didn’t seem to mind.

He held her close, aware of but in what was perhaps a turn of madness unbothered by the presence of the many politicians and civil servants in the room. Fuck ‘em. What’s one slow dance between two friends?

“Tonight has been…really nice,” Nicola said, mumbling into his neck.

“Aye, pet,” he replied, as her hand made its way up to rest on his chest.

“You know,” he said lowly into her ear, “someone tonight said you were the maddest woman this town has ever seen? I ought to go and box his ears.”

Then she looked up at him, smiled, and said, “why? He’s right.”


	4. "He's just your understudy"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can see you staring, honey, like he's just your understudy, like you'd get your knuckles bloody for me." - 'exile'

So that was it, then. She’d gone running back to him. After the repeated promises, the midnight meetings where she told him she loved him and only him, the secret kisses in cupboards at work…she’d bounced back into his arms like the world’s shittest boomerang. Well, fuck her. Malcolm Tucker had never needed anybody, not least Nicola fucking Murray, the most incompetent, neurotic, unhinged woman he had ever met.

Tonight, she was holding a party at her home for the shadow cabinet to celebrate the summer recess of parliament. Malcolm hadn’t spoken to her outside of work in months, and even then, their interactions had been cold and quiet.

Helen and Ollie knew something was up because they weren’t even fighting anymore. It was all passive-aggressive, or just plain awkward. Gone were the days of arms flying and books being launched across rooms, of Most Creative Insult competitions and rising decibels, days that ended in desks being cleared so he could take her, there and then. Now they just glared at one another, grumbled about each other to any civil servant who would listen, and stole glances at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking.

He arrived, purposefully, over two hours late, not wanting to arrive too early and have to make polite chat with Nicola, her husband and fucking Clare Ballentine. He didn’t even know why she’d invited him. A truce? Out of some weird, English notion of politeness?

Ah, no. That was why she had invited him.

He came into the garden through the side gate, and spotted her immediately. She was stood under the gazebo, lovely in a red dress, her bare arms bronzed from the sun. James’s arm was snaked round her waist. She was smiling up at him, looking at him in a way Malcolm had never seen before. James reached the punchline of a joke he was telling to some other couple and began to roar with laughter, squeezing his wife’s waist and pulling her close. Malcolm contemplated turning back and going home there and then. But then she noticed him, and shifted away from James’s grip, looking almost embarrassed. Good, he thought. Be embarrassed.

She had clearly invited him to make him jealous.

That was when James noticed him, too, and strode over in his direction, Nicola trotting at his side, heat rising in her cheeks.

“Malcolm Tucker!” James said, clasping his hand and shaking hard. “How the hell are you?”

“James,” Malcolm said, plastering on a smile. “Very well, very well, thanks. Thanks for having us. Here, I brought this.” He handed over a bottle of white.

“Is that Viognier? The man has taste!” James declared. “Nic, look at this. Malcolm, this is Nicola’s favourite wine. What a coincidence!”

Nicola looked at the bottle in James’s hands before nodding and pushing her hair behind her ears. “What a coincidence,” she repeated, smiling at her husband, avoiding Malcolm’s eye.

“I’m glad you like it,” Malcolm said, eyes firmly fixed on Nicola.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Nicky? Go and show Malcolm where he can put his coat and pour him a glass!” James said, with a wink at Malcolm, as if to say, “dutiful little wife!”

James was gone, heading in the direction of Dan Miller, a pairing that was so pompous it was almost perfect.

“Well, it’s, erm, just straight through here,” Nicola said, forcing a smile which the alarm in her eyes betrayed.

Malcolm followed her, watching the way the long skirt of her dress swished as she walked, how her golden skin beamed against its bold red fabric, how her sunglasses sat perched atop her head like a tortoiseshell crown. They were in the kitchen, a room which Malcolm hadn’t been in since Nicola had told him she was staying with James. The silence was unbearable.

“The wine…it’s um, it’s a bit warm,” Malcolm said, clearing his throat. “From the journey over. You probably want to stick it in the fridge for a bit before opening it.”

“Right,” Nicola replied. “Thanks, by the way. It’s a lovely bottle…you didn’t…you shouldn’t have.”

“Well, I did,” he said simply, with a small smile, that made her smile too. He had missed that smile.

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, relaxing a little. “Do you remember the first time I came here?”

She mirrored his movement. “When I became leader? God, yeah. That was a fun night.”

She had won, and there had been champagne and dancing and celebrating back at the office with everyone who had worked on the campaign. Giddy with excitement and drunk on power (and Clicquot), she had pulled him into a cupboard and kissed him, soft and sweet, and as he ran his hands up her waist and pulled her in, hard and heavy. They had escaped the party, unseen, and bundled into a cab back to hers. Of course, on what was perhaps the most important night of his wife’s life, James was away on business, so her kids were staying with friends.

They had stood in that kitchen, talking and laughing, dancing on the tiles, for hours. They had opened another bottle of Clicquot, nicked from the reception, and as it fizzed over, they shared secrets, bad date stories, lies told, loves lost. Then finally, she, in that black dress with the zip down the front, the one he would never forget as long as he lived, had taken him upstairs. He wouldn’t forget that, either.

“Do you remember what you said to me that night?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Malcolm, please, not now—” Nicola replied, shaking her head.

He walked over to her, slipping his hand round her waist. “You said you loved me. You said you were going to leave him.”

“Malcolm,” she breathed, “I know what I said, but—”

He leaned into her neck, and spoke lowly. “Seeing you standing with him, his arms around your body…Nic’la, I need you. I never stopped loving you.”

“And you think I did?” she said, tilting her head back, allowing him to move in to plant kisses on her neck.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he replied, moving from her neck to her mouth.

The kitchen door banged open, causing them both to jump. Malcolm leapt off Nicola, knocking a glass of wine to the floor in the process.

“Christ’s sake, Nicola, that must be the third glass you’ve smashed today,” James said, shutting the door behind him.

Nicola stood still, hand on her heart which was presumably racing from fear that they had been caught.

“Ah, don’t worry about it James mate, it was my fault, not hers,” Malcolm said, “you got any kitchen roll?”

“Leave her to it,” James smiled. “You’re used to being on your hands and knees, aren’t you love?”

She blushed, embarrassed at her husband cracking such a crude joke in front of a man who used to be her boss, and who now, technically, worked for her.

“Come outside, Malcolm, there’s a guy from the firm I’d really like you to meet,” James said, ushering Malcolm out into the garden with a hand on his back.

As he was led outside, he turned around and caught a glimpse of Nicola, watery-eyed, twisting her wedding ring round and round her finger.


	5. "It killed you just the same"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You had to kill me, but it killed you just the same, cursing my name, wishing I stayed." - 'my tears ricochet'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last two have been...very sad (it's a sad album) but I promise things will lighten up.

“You’re finished.”

The words rang out in her ears in her every waking moment; standing in the queue at Pret, brushing her teeth, weeding the garden, lying in bed at night, tossing and turning. The last words he had said to her after stabbing her in the back, the front, and then the back again, just to make sure she really was dead.

“We’ll see,” she had said, before making a rubbishy remark about the punctuation in Miller’s sign.

She had tried to be fierce, biting as much as she barked, but she was heartbroken. And the thing that twisted the knife in further, that caused her sudden tears in the taxi, much to Helen’s alarm, was that he knew how much he had hurt her, but had still continued to rant, and rave, and provoke, and push her. There was malice in his eyes that she had never seen before, couldn’t understand.

The question on the minds of seemingly every media outlet in the country was, how was Nicola unaware of this coup against her? She was a laughing stock: the leader who had no idea of the plot to oust her within her own party.

But how could she have seen it coming? How could she have, when every step of the way, she had Malcolm in her ear, whispering encouragements, talking her up, telling her she could do this?

When she got home that day, she ran upstairs and slammed the bedroom door shut behind her. She lay on her bed, hands covering her eyes, sobbing from her stomach, crying in a way she hadn’t since her dad died in her twenties. She must have lay there for hours, her face wet and eyes streaming. Her husband eventually arrived home from work and gingerly lay an arm around her shoulder, patting her and telling her it was going to be okay.

“Shh, Nicky,” James said, “you put two solid years in. It’s over now. It’s just a job.”

He was trying his best, but this just made her sob harder. It wasn’t about the job. It never had been. It was about him.

Malcolm had come to her to ask her to run for Leader. When she had told him no, he was the one who had pushed her, who had poured praise into her ears, who had even taken to turning up at her home in order to try and persuade her that this was the right move not just for her, but for the country.

Her face flushed and her stomach churned as she realised their whole relationship had been based on deception.

The final time he had asked her to run, he had invited her to dinner at his flat. He had lit candles and the wine had flowed and the conversation moved from politics to music to awkward teen years to favourite holiday trips and everything in between. They had finished eating and she was sat on his sofa, listening to an old Kate Bush record from her days at university.

He approached with drink refills and as he sat down, casually draped his arm around the back of the sofa. “Nic’la,” he said, “you know what I’m gonna ask.”

“No, Malcolm,” she said, smiling but serious, “don’t bother. I’m not running for Leader. I would be rubbish, and I don’t want it, and there are far better candidates than me.”

“That’s the thing though!” he exhaled, exasperated. “There’s no one more perfect than you!”

She scoffed into her wine glass. “No one has ever said that before.”

“Well, they should. You’re bloody brilliant, Nic’la. You’re principled, and you’re smart, and you’re funny—God, that’s a rare thing to find in a politician, trust me—and you’re headstrong, and stubborn, and you fight for what’s right…you’re perfect,” he said, looking at Nicola, whose lips were parted in surprise.

“I mean, I don’t know about any of that, I—”

“Nic’la,” Malcolm said, leaning forward and taking the glass from her hands, “say you’ll run.”

“Are you…are you sure?” she said, blinking.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my fuckin’ life, darlin’. You’ll be great.”

“I’ll—I’ll run for leader,” she said.

And then they had both smiled. And they were drunk. And he smelled like incense and wine and aftershave. And she had pressed her lips to his. And he had pulled her onto his lap, and nothing had ever felt more right.

And that was it, then. They were inseparable for a whole year. They would spend evenings at his flat, eating takeaways and watching the latest crap reality series, shouting at the telly. They would go for walks after work through the city, talking policy and strategy but also dissecting their deepest fears and darkest worries. When the kids were at her mum’s and James was away, they would picnic in her garden, eating strawberries and talking about their life after politics: where they would live (not London, they both agreed), the holidays they would take (a driving holiday through Italy’s wine regions was first on the list), the dogs they would adopt (something big and gentle, like a greyhound). He was her biggest cheerleader, constantly building her up, telling her she could do whatever she set her mind to. After a particularly bad day at work, he would take her back to his, wipe away her tears and carry her to the bedroom, the entire time telling her how fucking amazing and beautiful and oh god, so fucking sexy she was.

This is why she was sobbing like her world was ending. Because her world was ending. And the one person she wanted to run to, who could take her away from all of this and make it all okay, was the one who had pressed the destruct button.

He had texted and rang her; she blocked his number. He left messages on her landline; she deleted them without listening to them. Emails, messages left with Helen, handwritten letters to her house…trashed, ignored, binned.

She was at home one day, typing away at her laptop for her latest column in _Cosmo_. The doorbell rang and she got up to answer it, thankful for the distraction. As soon as she opened the door, she slammed it straight shut.

“Nic’la,” she heard him call.

“Fuck off,” she yelled back, hands beginning to shake at the sound of his voice.

“Nic’la, please, open the fucking door,” he said, “I need to explain.”

To his surprise, she opened the door.

“Explain what? Explain how you flattered me into running for Leader, which is something I never wanted to do, tricked me into believing you might have loved me, telling me whatever it is I wanted to hear about Italy and a house in Cornwall, and then after a year or so of pounding me into your mattress, decided, ‘you know what? I’ve had enough’, knifed me in the back, ruined my career and in the process, ruined my life? Is that what you came here to explain?”

“Yes,” he said, and, tears pricking in her eyes, she moved to slam the door in his face.

He was prepared, however, and jammed the door with his foot.

“Please…can I come in?” he asked.

She turned her back on him and walked into the dining room. He took this as a queue to follow her, closing the door behind him.

“I take it you didn’t get any of my messages, then?” Malcolm said, going for a joke, but her face was void of all emotion.

“What is it you wanted to say?” she said. He had sat down on a chair, but she was stood in the corner, her arms folded.

“I wanted to say that…I’m sorry. I know, too little, too late. But I needed to see you. I’ve been going mental without you, Nic’la. The coup…shouldn’t have happened like that. The party was in shambles, come on, you know that as well as anyone. If we wanted to win, we needed a change of leadership. I should have done things differently, and I apologise. But I need you to know that…that everything I said, every word, every syllable, every breath was true. I meant it.”

Her face remained unchanged. “If you had meant a single word you had said to me, you never, ever would have done those things to me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she held her hands out.

“I’m a grown woman, Malcolm, for Christ’s sake,” she cried. “If you wanted me gone, it would have been a difficult conversation, yes, and I would have protested at first, but I eventually would have been able to see that it was the right thing to do. You know I didn’t want that job, and that every day in it was a struggle for me. I would have stood aside. But you are…so…fucking…toxic, you are so fucking obsessed with the art of spin and the game of politics that you couldn’t let me go without slaughtering me. And you didn’t need to slaughter me.”

“Nic’la, I—” he said, moving towards her.

“You had to kill me, Malcolm. Because that’s what you do. You kill. Even things that you love.”

“Nic’la, listen to me,” he plead, placing his hand on her cheek.

She shook her head, batting his hand away. “You made your choice, Malcolm. You killed me but you’ve killed yourself just the same.”

Nicola ran a hand through her hair, choking out a heavy sigh.

“I think it’s best that you go now,” she said, pursing her lips.

She closed the door behind him, and went back to tapping away at her article. She wasn’t going to be the one crying. Not this time.


	6. "Shining just for you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You'll find me on my tallest tiptoes, spinning in my highest heels, love, shining just for you." - 'mirrorball'

“Christ on a bleedin’ bike—Nic’la, will you hurry the fuck up? The car’s coming in ten minutes!”

Malcolm tapped his fingers against the table, waiting for a response. Nothing.

“Right, that’s…it,” he muttered under his breath, taking it upon himself to find out what the hell she thought she was doing.

He burst in, nearly taking the door off its hinges. In front of him stood Nicola, who in turn, was stood in front of a mirror, holding up a long, billowy grey dress and a sleeveless bright blue dress, alternating them against her body.

“For fuck’s sake,” Malcolm cried, “we’re due at Helen’s wedding in thirty minutes and you haven’t even picked a dress yet.”

“I can’t decide,” Nicola moaned. “Pick for me.” She held out the dresses for him.

He walked past her to the wardrobe, and produced a Bardot-neck baby blue number.

She smiled and nodded. “Good choice.”

Malcolm kissed her on the cheek and wrapped his arms around her waist. "I know. Now. Get. This. The. Fuck. On,” he said, punctuating each word with a kiss, making her laugh until she conceded that yes, she would be ready and at the door in less than ten minutes.

He busied himself in the kitchen, putting away pots and pans, watering the basil plant they had been trying and failing to grow for the past month or so, and double checking Nicola had everything she needed in her bag (Rescue Remedy, propranolol, spearmint gum). Then finally, she appeared in the hallway, her wild hair tamed into cascading waves, brunette curls bouncing against the pastel blue of her dress. He couldn’t take his eyes off her even if the kitchen suddenly went up in flames (which was always a possibility with Nicola around).

“Well?” she said, pulling on an oversized white blazer, “what do you think?”

“Wow,” Malcolm said, unable to stop the stupid grin spreading across his face. “Really…just beautiful.”

“You don’t scrub up too badly yourself, Mr Tucker,” she beamed back at him, striding over in her white heels and worrying at his tie. Pleased with her adjustment, she stepped back, admiring her work. “Now,” she said. “Haven’t we got a wedding to get to?”

The wedding was beautiful. Helen was married over in a West London church, all high ceilings and Gothic architecture. She had looked beautiful too. Or at least she had from where Malcolm and Nicola were stood at the back of the church, having stumbled in after the ceremony had begun, Nicola’s indecisiveness making them late after all.

They had cheered and clapped the bride and groom off to the reception, and were now walking hand in hand through the courtyard. It was filled with cherry blossoms whose petals were floating through the air, coating the ground like pastel pink confetti. The late summer sun was warm against Nicola’s bare legs, its rays casting her in a golden glow.

“You think you’d ever wanna do this?” he asked, grinning.

“Maybe, if I was about twenty years younger,” Nicola replied.

“You wouldn’t wanna walk down the aisle again, then?” Malcolm said. “No white dress, no fancy reception, no expensive gifts?”

“Wearing a white dress at my age seems almost blasphemous,” she said, smiling wryly.

“You’re right,” he agreed, pulling her close with an arm around her waist, “virginal thou art not.”

At this, she tilted her head back and laughed, and he took the opportunity to kiss her jaw, hand stroking at her curves. He moved up to her mouth, planting rough kisses on her soft lips. As the wind picked up, cherry blossoms rained on them, fluttering around them like tiny pink butterflies.

They arrived at the reception to find that what they had discussed the night before was correct. Not only was Ollie invited, but Helen had sat them on the same table.

“Oliver Reeder!” Malcolm said, extending his hand. “God, it’s been fucking years. How’s Auntie Beeb treating you?”

“Good, thanks, Malc,” Ollie replied. “Just commissioned a series titled _Celebrity Pets Go Dating_ , so I’m really starting to feel like I’m at my life’s intellectual peak. Can I get you a drink?”

“Aye, a vodka tonic, please. And a glass of something sparkling.”

“Drinking for two, Malc? Tut tut,” Ollie said, as they advanced on the bar.

“Aha, no,” Malcolm said. “It’s for—”

“Ollie Reeder!” Nicola said, smiling, hoping the toilet paper that was stuck to her heel had fucked off. “Hello!”

“Nicola, hi,” Ollie smiled, awkward as ever, unsure whether to go in for a hug until Nicola pulled him in.

“Oh, thanks, darling,” Nicola said, noticing the glass of fizz in front of her.

“No, Nicola, that’s—oh,” Ollie said. “Oh,” he said again, pushing his seemingly eternally loose glasses up, trying to hide the shocked expression on his face. “I’d, er, I’d heard rumours, but I thought…they couldn’t possibly be true.”

Nicola blushed a little, sipping awkwardly at her glass, before Malcolm draped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

“Ollie, mate, get to B&Q yeah, get yourself some bricks, some cement, or whatever you use to build a fucking bridge, build the fucking bridge, and simply, get over it. Alright?” Malcolm spat, in a way that made Ollie feel eerily as if he was receiving a bollocking straight from his DoSAC days.

Malcolm noticed the colour rising in Ollie’s pale cheeks, and began to grin.

“I’m just joshing you, mate. It’s fine,” Malcolm said, “just a bit of friendly banter, yeah?”

Relieved, Ollie laughed, but still could have sworn that as they took their seats, Malcolm had shot him a look over the table that said “don’t try it.”

Over dinner, they caught up and went over the unlikely story of how the pair had ended up together. Ollie tried to politely hide his surprise at Nicola having forgiven Malcolm for how the leadership fiasco had ended, even if it had taken a good few years. He listened attentively as Nicola described how she had seen Malcolm at a charity event and stomped over with the intention of throwing the contents of her glass in his face.

“But then we ended up talking,” she said, “and realised how much had changed. I was still cross with him, of course. He wasn’t immediately forgiven. But we kept bumping into each other at these galas and events and ended up always sort of making a beeline for one another.”

Malcolm gazed at Nicola as she laughed, refilling her glass, tossing her hair over her shoulder. He never really realised how unlikely they were until others who knew them before pointed it out. They were unconventional, sure, but that was how they liked it.

He spun her around on the dance floor, her white heels tapping against the wood. She was giddy now, they both were, and every time he pushed her away and pulled her close she would laugh uproariously. Ollie had fucked off back to his posh flat in Central that he never could have afforded on government wages, so they were finally left to enjoy one another’s company. And Nicola being Nicola, that involved a lot of dancing.

Malcolm actually hated dancing. He had two left feet and he knew it. He lacked coordination and was always picked last for sports at school. But he’d never tell her that.

She lit up on the dance floor, her laugh bright and lovely, and he loved watching the sway of her hips as she moved in time to the music. Her silver hoop earrings shimmered and reflected like mini disco balls, and the skirt of her dress flared as she swished about. It was moments like these where he couldn’t believe she was his, that she was shining just for him.

The music came to a slow and he pulled her in close, her head against his chest, his hands caressing the small of her back.

“Tired yourself out now, pet?” he smiled.

She nodded, draping her hands around his neck.

“You know,” he said softly, “if you did want to marry me, we could do all of this. Pick out a nice venue, do everyone a nice meal…get everyone dancing, of course.”

She looked up at him with a grin. “Malcolm Tucker, is that a proposal?”

“It can be,” he replied, nonchalantly, as she pulled him in for a kiss.


	7. "I think your house is haunted"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've been meaning to tell you, I think your house is haunted." - 'seven'

“Called it. That’s the fifth time, alright. You owe me a pint, Glenn.”

“For fuck’s sake,” muttered Glenn. “That’s the fifth time this month she’s showed up late to work all teary and red-eyed. And we’re only two weeks into May! Poor Nicola.”

“Glenn, mate, I think you should be the one to talk to her,” Ollie said.

“Me? Why me?” Glenn protested, desperate to avoid a delicate conversation with his boss. “Surely it should be Terri, if anyone. She’s got…womanly wiles.”

“Womanly wiles? Did you wake up in 1870? Jesus, Glenn. Not Terri. She’s hardly got a bedside manner. What about…um…” Ollie trailed off, struggling to think of anyone close enough to Nicola who could speak to her about her seemingly rapidly deteriorating home life.

“Malcolm,” Glenn said.

“Malcolm? Christ, Glenn, not Malcolm, I mean—”

“Not me?” said Malcolm, suddenly looming over the pair. “Tell me, Oliver, what exactly should I not be doing?”

“I, erm, well, it’s Nicola. Husband’s upset her again, it seems,” Ollie said, avoiding Malcolm’s glare.

“And there’s the tiny problem of the, uh, bruise she tried to cover up a week or so ago,” Glenn added.

“For fuck’s…sake,” Malcolm hissed, slamming his fist on Ollie’s desk before bringing it to his mouth and biting a knuckle. “Neither of you thought it particularly pertinent to inform me of this any earlier? That…fucking…right, you two fuckos leave this to me, yeah? Don’t fucking go bothering her and do not mention this to anyone else. Capeesh?”

They nodded, slightly alarmed by Malcolm’s violent reaction, but glad enough to be relieved of any moral responsibility.

He spied her through the glass of her office, hand covering her face as she talked on the phone. He absentmindedly bit down on his cheek, anger burning inside him as he charged in, ignoring her admonishments as he pulled the phone out of her hand and slammed it into the receiver.

“Malcolm! What the fuck?” she cried, furious.

“No, Nic’la, that’s what I came here to ask you. What the fuck is going on?” he shouted, hands on his hips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”, she replied, doing her best to appear confused.

“Oh, is that right? Well, let me break it down for you,” he spat. “How about sporting bruises left, right and centre like designer trinkets? And coming into work all sniffly and wet-eyed like Tracy fuckin’ Beaker? How’d you get a bruise the size of fucking Germany on your upper back if you walked into a wall? What were you doing, moonwalking into it backwards?”

She opened her mouth in surprise, but he kept going.

“Yes, I saw that one. You couldn’t keep that massive clunking blazer on all day in the middle of May. You thought no one was looking but you thought fucking wrong. You need to fucking tell me what’s going on, Nic’la.”

“Why are you so angry?” she said, frowning like a sullen teenager. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Why am I angry?” he said, sounding angrier than ever. “Your husband’s doing his best Incredible Hulk impression on you and you’re asking me why I’m angry?” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Nic’la…I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at him, for doing this to you.”

“This isn’t right, is it, Nic’la?” he whispered, taking her shaking wrists in his hands. She shook her head in response, lip beginning to wobble.

“Shh,” he said, taking her head in his hands. “Come on, now. It’s gonna be alright. He’s not gonna hurt you anymore.”

She looked up at him and smiled, the first genuine smile he had seen from her in a while.

Malcolm awoke with a start. He leaned over and checked the clock. 2:30am.

“What the fuck…” he muttered, pulling himself out of bed and heading for the door. He hadn’t been woken up in the middle of the night by the police since his time at uni.

He didn’t know what he was expecting at 2:30am on a Wednesday, but it certainly wasn’t Nicola Murray on his doorstep in a parka and what looked like a nightie.

“Nic’la,” he said, surprised. “What’s—oh, fuck.”

He recoiled at the sight of a new bruise, this time around her neck.

“It’s James. He…got upset when I told him I was leaving. It was really bad, Malcolm, I—” Her lip began to wobble again, and he took her by the arm and led her inside.

He sat her down on the sofa, and brought her a cup of tea. Her parka was splattered wet, and her leg, which she was bouncing up and down, was slick with rainwater. She was staring off into space, mindlessly nibbling at a hangnail.

“Do you want to tell me what’s been going on?” Malcolm asked, passing her the mug.

She took a sip, and mustered up the energy to speak. “After Christmas, I found out my suspicions were correct all along, that he’d been cheating on me, with that fucking…stick insect secretary. We had a massive row and it, um…I’m not proud to say it, but we ended up having sex. So that was what we would do…argue and fight and name call and rather than address our issues, ignore them and end up in bed. But, um, things…started to get bad. It got rough, too rough…the worst was when we were at each other’s throats one night, and Ben came running into the kitchen and stepped in broken glass from where James had thrown a bottle.”

Her voice began to waver and her eyes watered. Malcolm sat down next to her, and placed an encouraging hand on her back. “It’s okay, love,” he whispered.

“He…he had cuts all over his feet. I had to take him to A&E, and it was my fault, for…for getting him angry, for allowing him to throw his weight around like that…he’s been under a lot of pressure at work recently and things just started to get worse, which is you know, why I’ve been coming into the office so late and things. So tonight I told him I didn’t want to do it anymore, that he needed to stop, and—and he lost it.”

Malcolm stroked her back up and down, the damp material of her coat cool against his hand. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. No woman deserved to be treated this way at the hands of her husband. Malcolm was hard on Nicola, sure, but because he expected a lot of her. Because she was clever and capable (with some pushing) and committed to her job. He could never hurt her, not in this way, and he felt sick knowing her husband had, but sicker at the thought that Nicola thought she was in any way to blame for James’s deranged behaviour.

“I need you to know something, Nic’la,” he said, taking her hand in his. “This isn’t your fault, yeah? You haven’t done anything wrong. You should never, ever blame yourself for what he has done to you.” He spoke slowly and softly, acutely aware of her fragile state.

They sat like that for a while, not speaking, his hand in hers, her hair dripping onto his sofa, her chest rising and falling. Eventually, she spoke.

“You can say no, obviously, but, I was wondering—”

“Can you stop the night? Course you can. I can make up a bed for you,” he said with a smile.

She smiled back. “Thank you. I know it’s not ideal but…it’s like that house is haunted. Even when I’m there alone, I don’t feel safe. Each room holds different but equally horrible memories, whether it be things he’s said to intentionally upset me or…things he’s chucked at me.”

“Like the world’s worst ever fucking museum,” he said, in an attempt to make her smile.

“I don’t know,” she shot back, “I hear Birmingham has a pen museum.” The attempt had worked.

“A pen museum sounds fuckin’ riveting, don’t you think?” he grinned. “Imagine all the exhibitions! Ballpoints and biros galore.”

She laughed, and then yawned, and Malcolm realised it was half three on a weekday and went away to make her bed.

Malcolm awoke after only an unsettled hour of sleep, interrupted by much tossing and turning. He headed into the kitchen for a glass of water to find Nicola also awake, sat at his kitchen table, drinking another cup of tea.

On any other occasion, he would have perhaps found the sight of Nicola in his kitchen wearing just a nightie to be quite inviting. However, she was vulnerable, and hurting, and probably not interested anyway, so he pushed that thought out of his mind.

“Can’t sleep?” she said, looking up at him. He nodded, filling up a glass and taking a seat next to her.

“Me neither,” she said with a sad smile. They sat silently for a few moments.

“What am I gonna do?” she said, suddenly, and she seemed to be genuinely asking.

He reached across the table to pat her hand. “Hey, you’re gonna be fine, yeah? Like we said, I’m gonna get you in touch with that mate of mine who practices family law, and you are gonna get your kids and you are gonna get out.” He paused, before adding, “I’ll be here to support you, every step of the way.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Malcolm exhaled. “Well, there’s two reasons,” he said. “First, I had to watch my mum go through what you’re going through now. I couldn’t help her, I was a boy. And I know what it does to a person…my mum’s never been the same.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know what it’s like…to feel like a ghost within your own home. Like…you can’t make a peep or do the wrong thing else all hell will break loose. What you said earlier about your house being haunted…it is. Their presence never leaves you, manifests itself as that voice inside your head telling you you’re a fuck-up and no good and…I get it, is what I’m trying to say.”

He necked the glass of water, and then said, “and the second. I like you, Nic’la. It might surprise you to hear it, but, I fucking give a damn about you, yeah? You’re a fucking good person, compared to all the other Westminster wankers who don’t give a solitary shit about their job or the people they work for. You’re kind. And you don’t deserve any of this.”

Before he knew it, her hand was on his chest and she was edging onto his lap, planting desperate kisses against his lips, placing his hands against the soft fabric of her nightie. He kissed her back, running her hands against her hips as she settled onto his thigh.

“Fuck,” Malcolm thought, as his horrible conscience kicked in.

He pulled away from Nicola, leaving her breathless and frowning. “Nic’la…this…isn’t a good idea,” he said. “Not now.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“You’re vulnerable, and emotional, and…even if you were certain, I’d feel like I was taking advantage.”

“I know,” she said, with a small smile.

Malcolm leant up and kissed Nicola’s cheek, and she eased off his lap.

“Try and get some sleep, yeah, and we’ll talk in the morning?” he said, heading for his bedroom.

“Malcolm?” she said, stopping him in his tracks.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks." 


	8. "You were never mine"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "August sipped away like a bottle of wine, cause you were never mine" - 'august'

He had come to her in June, just before the summer session of Parliament came to a close. He had waited for her outside of the Chamber, walked her through Westminster (purposefully taking the longer route) back to DoSAC where a car was waiting for her. And as she stepped into the car, he had asked her.

“Good joke,” she had said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not joking,” he replied, leaning against the roof of the car. “You should run for leader.”

“I get enough sarcasm from my horrible children, I certainly don’t need more of it from you,” she scoffed, pulling out her BlackBerry. “Bye, Malcolm,” she said, slamming the door and signalling Elvis to drive on.

Malcolm was not a man to give up easily. The following Monday, he invited her to his office, and laid out to her in more serious terms why he thought she needed to run. She was surprised and flattered, but still turned him down, leaving him punching his desk after she left, uttering the first obscenities that came to mind. Why was she being so fucking stubborn?

After other equally futile meetings, he decided to change strategy. One Saturday afternoon, he took two tubes (who the fuck lives two tubes outside of Central?) to her home in North London, with the aim of fucking…surprising her into running, or something. He wasn’t sure.

“Muuuuum! There’s a Scottish man with grey hair at the door!”, one of her daughters (Ella, maybe?) shouted.

“Grey hair?” Malcolm thought, suddenly self-conscious.

Nicola appeared, looking summery in a red sundress, her normally mental hair tamed into neat waves down her shoulders. She raised an eyebrow as she clocked him, but couldn’t quite hide the startled look on her face.

“Stalking me now, then?” she said.

“Might be,” he replied. “This a bad time?”

“We’re having a barbecue, actually—”

“My apologies. We can do this on Mond—”

“No, no,” she smiled, “stay. Come through.”

In the garden were another couple and their two children who were playing with who Malcolm assumed to be Nicola’s youngest. He recognised James immediately, having met him on the extraordinarily rare occasions that he decided to grace Westminster with an appearance to support his wife.

“Kay, Keith, this is Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications at Number 10,” Nicola said.

“Malcolm!” James said, clasping his hand. “Good to see you again. Would you like a drink? You’re just in time for me to put the sausages on.”

“No, no, you’re fine, James, don’t worry about me. Ate one of those fuckin’ superfood salads from Pret or somewhere equally as fuckin’ poncey on my way here,” he said, receiving a glare from Nicola for swearing not once, but twice, in front of the children.

“Do you normally receive social calls from your party spin doctor, Nicola?” asked a middle-aged woman whose name he had already forgotten.

“Look, don’t let me put an end to your festivities, yeah? I just need two minutes with Nic’la and I’ll be outta your hair like lice on the scalp of an alopecia sufferer,” Malcolm grinned, following Nicola who had already made her way into the kitchen.

“Lovely home,” he said. “You living well on the taxpayer’s money, then, yeah?” He knew he’d pushed a button before he even said it.

She rolled her eyes and folded her arms. “What do you want, Malcolm?”

“You know what I want,” he said, advancing on her, closing the distance between them.

“No, Malcolm,” Nicola said, shaking her head.

“Yes, Nic’la,” he said, nodding his head, placing his hand on her chin and making her nod too. This thankfully elicited a smile and not a slap.

Still, she refused him, and Malcolm refused her husband’s tempting offer to stay for a burger. On his way home, he formulated another strategy, and sent her a text when he got home.

“Sorry for intruding. You and James should come for dinner on Fri. No leadership talk.”

When Nicola arrived at his flat a week later bearing a bottle of wine and no husband, he knew he had made the right call.

She was slightly awkward at first, acting as if she had been summoned to the headmaster’s office, almost. But she soon relaxed after the first glass of wine and Malcolm found himself genuinely enjoying her company. Work had been stressful and he had forgotten what a laugh she could actually be.

They had finished dinner, and she was on the sofa, bobbing her head to Kate Bush (they discovered they had both been obsessed in their youth), and he knew it was time to strike.

They had their usual back and forth where she modestly insisted she wouldn’t run. But this time, when he pushed, she seemed to give a little.

“Are you…are you sure?” she said, looking at him, her eyes big and uncertain.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my fuckin’ life, darlin’,” he replied, smiling. “You’ll be great.”

“I’ll—I’ll run for leader,” she said, and Malcolm’s plan was finally complete.

She was smiling back at him, her hazel eyes still uncertain, but with a spark behind them that he wasn’t sure he’d seen before. Then she did something that wasn’t apart of the plan, but wasn’t entirely unwelcome either.

Nicola leant over and placed her lips against his, soft at first, but harder as he responded. He pulled her onto his lap, running his hand up the skirt of her alarming orange dress that on any other occasion, he would have said made her look like a traffic cone, but this time, he knew better to shut his mouth.

“If I’d’ve known power turned you on so much,” he breathed, “I would’ve done this a long time ago.”

“Malcolm?” Nicola said, catching her breath and readjusting against him.

“Yeah, love?”

“Shut the fuck up,” she said, kissing him.

June rolled into July and Parliament went into recess but they saw each other more than ever, more than they had done while at work. It started out as meeting once or twice a week to go over campaign details and to talk strategy. They would have lunch in the city and afterwards they would walk around, veering away from campaign talk into general chitchat and more personal conversations.

Soon those lunches got boozier, and they would end up stumbling into a cab at two o’clock in the afternoon, rushing back to his flat so he could have her there and then. Then they would sleep for a couple of hours, his arm draped across her side, his head pressed against her neck. He’d wake before her, watching her chest rise and fall, her chestnut hair dark against his white pillows. When she awoke, they’d order food in (usually Chinese - it was her favourite, but James never allowed it, saying she needed to “watch her figure”), and spend the evening watching crap telly, cuddled up together on his sofa.

August was his favourite month, though. James insisted on taking the kids to visit his sister in Australia, and Nicola made up some excuse about needing to focus on her campaign strategy in the lead up to her leadership bid. So for one glorious month, Malcolm had her all to himself.

They would begin their days with the intention of genuinely working on campaign strategy, putting things in place, securing support across the party. But those plans would quickly melt away as long breakfasts extended well past midday, and sometimes, neither of them dressing until the afternoon, just traipsing around his flat in t-shirts and pants. They went back and forth between his flat and her house, enjoying the leafy suburban seclusion of her neighbourhood, and the warm evenings they spent in the sun trap of her garden, eating fresh strawberries and sipping cool wine. Eventually those evenings would turn dark, and she would complain that she was cold, so he would lead her upstairs with the promise of warming her up. In the beginning, she had said it wouldn’t, couldn’t happen, not in her bed. That swiftly changed, however, and she tried to ignore the part of her that loved being fucked in the bed she shared with her husband by a man who was definitely not her husband.

Somewhere along the way, they started talking of holidays in Italy and a home along the Scottish coast. One night, they lay in bed, Nicola’s head on his chest, and he asked if she would ever leave her husband. To his surprise, she lifted her head up, and whispered, “yes”.

But Malcolm made the fatal error of trusting the promise of a politician. Her family were due back on the 28th, and that final week of August was their most intense. Her energy was frantic and manic, if he came up behind her in the kitchen to slip his arms around her waist, she would jump out of her skin, her heart pounding. She needed him close to her, always within reach, would even grasp for his hand if they were out in public, in quite a risky move that was so unlike her usually cautious self. She wanted him, needed him, throughout the day, in the kitchen, in the bedroom, against a wall.

And then it dawned on him. She wasn’t going to leave James. Never was. She was drowning, clinging onto him in a futile attempt to keep herself afloat, thrashing about as the waves enveloped her.

Her husbands and kids returned home, and things fizzled out. August ran into September and she was back into mother mode, always fretting about pick-up and after school clubs and meetings. She slipped back into the role of dutiful wife with an ease that hurt him, but not as much as it should have. He’d have been fooling himself to think it would last, that Italy, or the dogs, or the house in the country, that any of it could ever be true. Not yet.

He didn’t make things awkward. No use making it harder for her than it needed to be. Every time he looked at her, he’d think of August, and what they’d had, and for now, that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for how long this has taken!! I've been back at work the last month and after work the last thing I want to do is engage my brain and write. But do not worry, I have not forgotten about this fic. folklore is still making me incredibly emosh about these two. Thanks as ever for your lovely comments and encouragement, hope you like this one!


	9. "At least I'm trying"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I just wanted you to know that this is me trying. At least I'm trying" - 'this is me trying'

It was 11:03 on a Tuesday morning and she was already on her third news story of the day.

First it had been the health stats fuckup. Technically, yes, not her fault, but as the face of the department, she was the one people were bound to blame. She’d had to do an LBC interview in the car on the way in to explain what had happened and how she intended to fix it, but as Terri smugly informed her as she arrived at the office, she had come off more ‘Pride and Prejudice’ than ‘Sense and Sensibility’. Whatever the fuck that meant on a Tuesday morning.

Then came the news about a dodgy business deal her shit for brains husband had made. Technically, again, not her fault, but as a government minister, she had fucked up. She had agreed that it would be a good idea for them to buy a property to let, and yes, she had signed the papers, but it was a total surprise to her that the bloke who had organised the deal was an ex-con. She had thrown him out, told him to stay with his mother until he got his shit together, but that didn’t matter to the media. Rag headlines across the nation bore titles like “Naughty Nicola” and “No, Minister”, whilst the broadsheets went for more sophisticated but just as cutting descriptions that didn’t skimp on the details of her disastrous marital life.

And then at 11:03 came the BBC bulletin:

“Government welfare policy taken from Tory election manifesto”

Oh, shit.  
  


“Technically, this is—”

“Not your fault?”

“Well, yes.”

“You know, Nic’la, I have met a lot of fuckin’ ministers in my time, right, a lot of fuckin’…bent, crooked, corrupt motherfuckers, yeah, but one thing I can say for them that I cannot say for you? They would hold their fuckin’ shitstained hands up, and say two tiny little fuckin’ words: ‘my bad.’ Right? That’s all you’d have to say. ‘My bad.’”

Nicola opened her mouth, but swiftly received a palm to the face indicating she was not to say anything if she knew what was good for her.

“But no. There is something deep, something…Freudian, almost, inside of you, that is incapable of admitting the slightest mistake. It is always technically never your fault.” He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You fix this,” Malcolm said simply, turning to leave.

“At least I’m trying,” she said.

He stopped in his tracks and spun round to face her. He had never seen her so…defeated. Normally she was all bite, all bark, charging into battle with him like a twelve year-old on Red Bull, hurling insults and firing comebacks and countering his cutting remarks with a speed and wit that was unmatched in Westminster.

But today was different. She was spinning aimlessly in her desk chair, wearing a navy blue blazer that drowned her and added to her image of child playing dress-up. He had never heard her take such a tone; usually she was all affected plummy mummy, but then her voice was flat and small, the wind kicked out of it like a deflated balloon.

“What?” he said, approaching her desk.

“Malcolm, this is me, standing in front of you, telling you, that this is me trying,” Nicola said, voice louder and more wavering. “I am trying…my fucking best here, alright? I didn’t ask for this job, I didn’t ask for you to be my own personal fucking Grim Reaper, looming around corridors to catch me out, haunting me around Westminster, I didn’t ask for any of this. I am trying to do my best.”

She looked at him, rant over. He was being suspiciously quiet which meant she had either impressed him or fucked up majorly.

“Oh, I see, you’re trying,” Malcolm said, in a voice reserved only for very small children and ministers he perceived to be of the same mental age. “Your department’s in pieces and you, yes fuckin’ you, darlin’, deserve your own fuckin’ BBC telethon titled ‘Nicola in Need’, because of how fuckin’ dismal y’are at your own job, but yeah. You’re trying. That’s all that matters!”

She rolled her eyes at him, trying not to show how much his words affected her, but knowing that the wobble of her lip would betray her.

“For fuck’s sake,” he exhaled, throwing his hands up. “Don’t fuckin’ cry!”

She wasn’t going to cry, but at being told not to cry, Nicola’s mouth began to waver even more.

“Don’t fuckin’—look, c’mere,” he said, fetching a tissue and sitting down to face her.

He leaned over and dabbed at her eyes, her eyeliner streaking at his less than expert touch and making her look not out of place in the lineup of an 80s goth rock band. She sniffed repeatedly, trying to catch her breath. The intimacy of the moment suddenly caught up to him, his thumb resting on the side of her face, holding her chin to catch the watery drips of eyeliner. He abruptly moved back, but not before making a mental note of how her cheek had fitted into his hand, and how, up close, she smelled sweet and delicate, like a vanilla candle.

She had also seemed surprised at the softness of his touch, catching her breath like she’d expected him to throttle her rather than jot at her tears with the tissue. He gave her a second to compose herself—he knew she was alright when she’d done that flicky hair thing he hated to admit he liked so much—and began to speak.

“Look…I’m sorry, for upsetting you. It’s just I expect a lot of you, yeah, because you’re one of the good ones. Y’actually believe in something, in making a difference in people’s lives…”

He trailed off, as Nicola looked up at him, her dark eyes staring him down.

“But darlin’…you’ve got to start admitting to some of these mistakes, yeah? You’re the face of this department. And while, yes, you may not have personally responsible for the policy fuck-up, it’s still within your domain,” Malcolm said. He reached out across the desk and gave her hand what he hoped was a reassuring pat.

She nodded at him, forcing a smile, and whispered, “yes”.

“Secretary of State, you need to see this—”

Terri burst in, a vision in pastel pink, clutching a stack of files that Nicola would no doubt be up til the early hours sifting through.

“Oh, I—” she stuttered, before turning pink and heading out the door.

Nicola jolted back into her usual state of alarm, pulling back the hand that Malcolm had been holding as if she’d burnt it on the hob.

Malcolm shot up and headed for the door. “You…fix this policy issue. And I will fix this.”

“I can try,” she exhaled, cheeks burning. But he was already gone.


	10. "Clandestine meetings and stolen stares"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's the thing about illicit affairs and clandestine meetings and stolen stares. They show their truth one single time, but they lie and they lie and they lie a million little times." - 'illicit affairs'

Nicola smoothed the dress down over her hips. It was the first item she hadn’t bought on sale in years, a short black thing that she was probably too old to be wearing but looked too good in to care. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, lips red enough to drip rubies, and headed downstairs. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so excited for a dinner date. As she walked past, she spied Ben in his bedroom, scribbling crayon onto the walls. Pre-kids. Definitely.

“Where you off to dressed like that? On a…Thursday evening?”

James. She exhaled, hoping by this point he’d have been passed out in front of the telly, that she could slip out unnoticed.

“Out,” she responded with as much nonchalance as a woman with moderate-to-severe anxiety could muster.

“With?” he asked, leaning against the wall, eyeing her toned calves as she slipped on her black pumps.

“Friends,” she said simply, chucking her keys in her back and avoiding his gaze.

“Where are you going?” he said sulkily.

“Town,” she replied, checking her lipstick in the mirror.

He scoffed, folding his arms. “What am I supposed to eat?”

“I don’t know, James, food?” she snapped, turning to face him, incredulous at how he had managed to navigate through life before meeting her. “My cab’s here,” she said, opening the front door. “Don’t wait up.”

In truth, Nicola was not headed to town. No, they had decided that was too obvious. Too easily seen, too many people on Twitter, too many off-duty journos. So they had decided to meet somewhere they figured they wouldn’t be found: Chiswick.

Random, perhaps, but it was far enough outside of Central for them to have an evening in peace without bumping into anyone they knew and having to experience an unpleasant conversation. It was a long drive for Nicola, but it added to the excitement, the sense of occasion. Besides, Chiswick felt worlds away from London, and perhaps that was part of it: the feeling of escape, that they were living another life in some small regional town, far away from work and husbands and kids and bloody politics.

She arrived at the restaurant, eventually, and headed inside. It was their usual haunt, a quirky little place with purple velvet chairs and cherry wood flooring. They served Mediterranean food that she had once said reminded her of her grandma’s cooking from her childhood, a little glimpse into her history that Malcolm had never let go of, booking them the same table every time.

He was there already, of course, dressed down in a smart shirt and jeans. He had ordered her a glass of merlot (her favourite) and was glancing at the menu when she arrived.

“I know, I know,” she said, before he could speak. “I’m overdressed. But I saw this when I took Katie shopping last week and…”

“You couldn’t resist?” Malcolm said, putting the menu down and taking her in, smiling.

“You got it,” she replied with a laugh. “What do you think?”

“I think,” he said, pulling her chair out, “it was an excellent decision.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss. “Although,” he said, pulling away, “this would make a brilliant bat costume if you saved it for Halloween.”

They had finished dinner, and had had their usual chat with Betty, the owner, on their way out.

“Dr Taylor, you look stunning! Your husband is a lucky man,” Betty smiled, raising her eyebrows at Malcolm.

“Aye, you’re right there, Betty,” Malcolm smiled, his arm draped round Nicola’s shoulder.

“And how are the kids?” Betty asked, beaming.

“Fine”, he replied. “My Year 8s are cocky little cunts, pardon my language, but my new Year 12s are great.”

“They’re lucky to have such a dedicated teacher!” Betty replied. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. See you next week?”

“Of course,” Nicola replied, taking Malcolm’s hand in hers. “See you then.”

It was a little game they had come up with by accident. The first time they had met there, they had both been excited, nervous, on edge. They were waiting for a table and the host needed a name.

“Taylor,” he had said, panicking, provoking a sidewards glance from Nicola. “Mr Taylor.”

“Mr Taylor?” she snorted. “Who introduces themselves as ‘Mr?’ Are you a teacher or something?”

And as they had come back to Betty’s, they got to know her, and the staff better, and had invented little characters for themselves. He was Hugh Taylor, a history teacher at the local comprehensive. He rode a bike to work and grew fresh vegetables down at the allotment. He had asked Val to marry him on holiday in Cornwall one year, down on the beach, with the wind blowing her hair so much she didn’t see him get down on one knee til the last moment.

She was Dr Valerie Taylor, an English lecturer and specialist in her field of Georgian society in English literature. She was a regular contributor to a poetry magazine and ran an open mic night at their local cafe to celebrate local writing. She would cook the vegetables Hugh grew at the allotment into Thai curries and warming stews.

It was silly, they both knew it, but it had become part of their routine, this little game. There was no talk of work, or politics, or kids. There was just each other, and Betty’s, and the little imaginary lives they had created.

Of course, Monday would come, and it would once again be all go. Back in the office, they were no longer the Taylors, plural, but Tucker and Murray, separate.

There was no special treatment though. If Nicola fucked up, she was still bollocked, just the same as anyone else. But the promise of the weekend was kept alive in stolen stares and sideways glances, in meetings, down corridors, at Cabinet.

They walked along the river, lit only by lampposts and the stars, knowing that as the darkness drew in, their evening as the Taylors would be ending soon, but warmed by the knowledge that they could do it all over again the same time next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this update! I really got wrapped up in the idea of them living this totally imaginary life on the weekend... also, writing "Tucker and Murray" has made me really want to write a Scott & Bailey style AU for these two...


	11. "Tying you to me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And isn't it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?" - 'invisible string'

It was edging closer towards Christmas and DoSAC was looking more festive by the day. Some civil servant had draped the office in a rather sad looking selection of tinsel and there was buzz around the department about the annual Christmas bash. Terri had even decorated her desk with some dreadful antique elves with rosy cheeks and cherubim smiles that made the edges of Nicola’s mouth turn upwards involuntarily every time she saw them. And that wasn’t just because she had something of an aversion towards holiday festivities as it was, they were just fucking terrible.

There was a knock at the door, but no pause to wait for Nicola to invite them in, which immediately told Nicola that it was Mrs Claus herself.

“Er, Minister?” Terri said, smiling in that way she always did before presenting her with bad news. 

“What fresh hell do you bring now, Terri?” Nicola asked, smiling, leaning back in her chair.

“The PM would like you to attend a nativity in Forest Hill tomorrow evening—”

“What?” Nicola cried, incredulous. “A nativity? All the way in bloody Lewisham?”

“Yes!” Terri replied. “Most unfortunately, the PM can’t make it, so he thought you should go in his place. He’ll send a car for you and James, of course.”

“No, he won’t,” Nicola scoffed, “because there won’t be a me and James at the nativity. Not tomorrow night, not ever.”

“And shall I tell him that?” Terri smiled.

“Yes, you bloody well…shall!” Nicola said, perhaps harsher than she meant. “Is that all, then, Terri?” she added, trying for softness.

“That is all at this present time, Minister,” Terri said, turning on her heel. “Oh, and just a reminder about the Christmas Party on Friday.”

“Yes, thanks, Terri,” Nicola said quickly, willing her to leave. Apparently Terri got her telepathic message as she wandered off out of her office to bother some other poor soul who dare cross her path.

Nicola let out the sigh she hadn’t realised she had been holding in, before frowning and reexamining the pile of policy documents sat in front of her. She was just starting to make some headway with them when there was another knock at the door.

“You’d make a bloody brilliant Mary in a school nativity, you know, Terri,” Nicola said, looking up from her desk to once again see her Director of Communications hovering at her door.

“Oh, do you think so?” Terri beamed. “I was only ever cast as the narrator, due to what my Year 2 teacher referred to as my ‘particularly commanding voice’.”

“No, Terri,” Nicola said, “because of the knocking—”

“Ah, of course, yes!” Terri replied. “Any room at the inn?”

Nicola smiled weakly, wishing she hadn’t bothered. “Yes. Anyway. What can I do for you?”  
“Any room at the inn?” said Malcolm, appearing suddenly behind Terri, a wide grin on his face.

“Actually, we’ve just done that one, Malcolm, so…” Nicola said flatly, wondering what the hell she could have done to have summoned the Dark Lord of Spin this time.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Terri said quietly, backing out of the office in what was probably the most effective decision she would make that day.

“Oh, aye, but I thought you could use a refresher. What with you attending that nativity tomorrow,” Malcolm said, approaching Nicola’s desk.

“Well, actually, Malcolm, I’m not going,” Nicola said, trying for an air of finality that didn’t really land.

Malcolm sighed, scratching his head. “Look, Nic’la, I know it’s not exactly where you wanna be on a Tuesday evening, yeah, but these kids are acting their wee fuckin’ hearts out, just for you, and Tom’s asked you to do this as a favour, to him, personally.”

“Why can’t Griffin go? He’s the bloody Education Minister! This is his remit!” Nicola cried, waving her hands about.

“I don’t know why you’re getting your massive fucking knickers in such a twist here, Nic’la, but you are going to this nativity in Lewisham tomorrow and you will smile and be merry and bright and take lots of nice lovely pictures with the boys and girls, alright?” Malcolm said, pointing a decisive finger at Nicola.

“First of all, Malcolm, my knickers are not massive, not that that is any of your business,” Nicola said, having taken Malcolm’s bait hook, line and sinker. “And second of all, I’m not going, it’s not my job, Griffin can go, or, even better, Tom can go like he committed to do so in the first fucking place.”

Malcolm placed a firm fist on the desk, frown firmly settled on his face. “Why are you fighting this so hard, Nic’la? Rumour has it round here you’re Christmas fuckin’ Hitler, not even going to her own department’s end-of-year party. Just do this favour for Tom.”

“Because I can’t, Malcolm—”

“Why?”

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I just—”

“This another one of your weird fuckin’ phobia things, aye? Scared of fuckin’ Father Christmas comin’ down your chimney at night?”

“My Dad died at Christmas,” Nicola said, suddenly, surprising herself, and apparently Malcolm, going by the look on his face. “Just before my birthday.”

She inhaled, aware of how shuddery her breathing had become. “I don’t talk about it lots, and you know, I get through Christmas because of the kids, but…it’s not my favourite time of year. So I’d appreciate if you could just give me this one thing, Malcolm,” she said, quietly but firmly.

Malcolm dropped into the chair in front of her desk, his frowning face softened. “I—” he started, but Nicola cut him off, for once.

“Didn’t know?” she said, smiling faintly. “Well now you do. So.”

“No,” he replied slowly, “I didn’t know. But what I was gonna say was that I know how it feels.”

Nicola looked up, frowning slightly. Malcolm took this as a sign to go on. 

“My dad…passed away, too. Not at Christmas. But it was on my birthday, actually. So, I won’t say I know exactly how you feel, cause I don’t, but I can understand.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Malcolm studying Nicola’s face with a softness she had never seen before. His silence was unnerving, and Nicola willed him to say something, anything, to break the weird tension that had settled between them.

“Don’t worry about the nativity, yeah? I’ll get it sorted,” he said, finally, getting up and heading for the door. “Oh, and—sod the party. I’ve never liked ‘em, anyway. Be with your family. I’ll see to these lot.”

He was gone before she could whisper “thanks”. 

True to his word, Malcolm did see to the DoSAC bunch, who didn’t dare bother her again about anything remotely festive. And this knowledge of their shared connection didn’t exactly alter the way they treated each other—he was still relentlessly critical and they still had their infamous shouting matches—but there was some sense of an extra level to their relationship, a sense of understanding between them. 

Over the course of various lunches, car journeys, in-between being ferried to press engagement after press engagement, they found that there were still more strange similarities between them. She was born on the 21st of December, the shortest day of the year, and he was born on the 21st of June, the longest day of the year. They had taken the same subjects at A level. Growing up, he had lived on Station Road and she had lived on Station Avenue.

In the car on the way to a conference, Nicola explained these strange coincidences to her bemused team. 

“That’s the sort of thing that means two people are meant to be together,” Terri said, nonchalantly, looking down at her notes.

“What,” Nicola said, suddenly alarmed, “do you think so?”

“I mean, yes, usually,” Terri replied, “if you believe in that sort of thing.” 

Nicola felt her heart begin to race. She was sure her cheeks were flushed and that Glenn and Ollie were both staring at her.

“I say usually,” Terri continued, “because I can’t say I think you and Malcolm are meant to be together. No offence, you are a handsome woman, but I just can’t see it.”

“Yeah,” Ollie interjected, scoffing, “you’d be like Jack and Vera Duckworth, shouting the street down.”

Nicola forced out a laugh, before flicking her hair multiple times and focusing her eyes on the road ahead. She didn’t need fate to tell her what was real and what wasn’t. The way he’d looked at her in her office at Christmas, and the time they’d spent together laughing at their funny little coincidences—that was more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It felt wrong to be updating in December and for this to not be a Christmassy chapter. Hope you are all enjoying Evermore :)


End file.
